


Black Ice

by AlElizabeth



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Family, Hurt/Comfort, Tragedy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-08
Updated: 2017-01-08
Packaged: 2018-09-15 20:18:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,267
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9254891
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlElizabeth/pseuds/AlElizabeth
Summary: Wee!Chester. A terrible car accident leaves Sam fighting for his life. Can a Christmas miracle save him before he loses the battle?





	

Dean Winchester stared down at the worn, beige tiled floor without seeing it.

Eyes dull and face slack, the thirteen-year old was in shock.

The sound of footsteps alerted the teen to someone's approach- maybe the doctor- and Dean looked up expectantly, and more than a little hopefully.

But it was only John, his face pale beneath his black beard, his brown eyes empty, hands gripping two Styrofoam cups so tightly as to crush them unintentionally.

The father sank into the uncomfortable orange plastic seat beside his son and thrust one fisted hand toward the teen, silently offering one of the cups.

Dean took the Styrofoam cup without comment and quickly took a sip. Coffee, strong and bitter, almost burnt. The liquid was hot and scalded all the way down to the thirteen-year old's stomach, making his eyes water.

Slowly, Dean's gaze traveled downwards once again, as though he found the floor fascinating and continued to stare down at the scuffed tiles, wondering what stories they could tell if they could talk.

W

"C'mon Sammy," Dean called to his brother as the nine-year old crouched down at the edge of the sidewalk and began gathering snow with his mittened hands.

"One minute!" Sam exclaimed and quickly rolled a snowball. Standing, the child held his handiwork up proudly before clomping towards his big brother in boots two sizes too large for his feet.

"Dad's waiting for us at the motel," Dean chided gently, reminding his sibling, "You know he get's upset if we're late."

Sam frowned, passing his snowball from hand to hand as he walked beside his brother.

"If Dad's so worried about us," he wondered out loud, "Why doesn't he pick us up?"

Dean sighed, "We're only a few blocks away from the motel. Besides, Dad's probably busy with the case. You know."

The younger sibling nodded, still passing the snowball from hand to hand.

Dean glanced at his brother from the corner of his eye and smiled. Sam, wearing mostly hand-me-downs and items purchased cheaply from consignment stores, looked like a little kid in his oversized boots and jacket, fraying mittens and toque sitting so low on his forehead it nearly touched his eyebrows. The nine-year old's face was serene, calm, and peaceful with the knowledge that he was safe, loved and protected by his small family. Walking down the sidewalk with his big brother, snowball traveling from right hand to left and back again, Sam was the picture of security.

Dean shook his head slightly and nudged his brother gently.

"What's on your mind, Squirt?"

The nine-year old peered up at his older sibling, one corner of his mouth lifting in a lopsided smile.

Suddenly Dean had a faceful of snow as Sam shoved the snowball at him. Icy chunks slid down the teen's cheeks and chin and down past the collar of his jacket.

"Hey!" Dean wiped a gloved hand down his face and snarled playfully, "You'll pay for that!"

The younger brother let out a yelp of fear and skipped ahead of his sibling, just out of Dean's reach.

"Only if you can catch me!" Sam taunted, sticking his tongue out for good measure.

"That's it!" Dean growled, though he was smiling, "Now you're in for it!"

Sam took off at a sprint down the sidewalk, giggling as he went. Dean tore after him, likewise laughing.

The brothers ran for about six feet, their boots skidding unheeded on the slippery sidewalk, kicking up snow, as one chased after the other playfully.

Reaching out, Dean managed to snag the back of his brother's coat and lifted him bodily in the air. Sam shrieked with delight, like a small child, and was dumped unceremoniously into a snow bank on the boulevard.

Breathing heavily, the thirteen-year old stood on the sidewalk in front of his sibling as Sam floundered in the snow.

"C'mon Dean!" the nine-year old encouraged, "Jump in!"

Dean, just about to oblige his sibling, looked up at the sound of a car's horn letting out a long blare, very close to them and froze. A red Toyota was heading straight for them, the woman behind the wheel staring wide-eyed at the boys through the windshield.

Why isn't she stopping? The thirteen-year old wondered for a split second before he found his voice.

"SAM!" he shouted and quickly dived out of the way of the oncoming vehicle, praying that his brother had seen the car as well and had the sense to move.

The thirteen-year old landed hard on the cold cement of the sidewalk, knees and elbows absorbing the impact and he gasped as pain shot up his arms and legs simultaneously.

Limbs still buzzing with pain, the older sibling turned where he was, eyes searching the snow where his brother had been only moments before.

"Sam?" he called, fear crawling up his throat like sour bile, "Sammy? Sammy!"

W

It was an accident.

The lady driving the little red Toyota had skidded on a patch of ice on the road and had been unable to brake in time. The brothers had simply been in the wrong place at the wrong time.

If Sam hadn't thrown that snowball, if Dean hadn't chased him, if he hadn't thrown his sibling into that snow bank…

Dean clenched both his hands into fists, the one holding the cup crushing the Styrofoam with a soft crack, spilling hot coffee onto the floor. Not that he noticed.

Sam was in a bad way.

The doctor had come out to talk to the Winchesters about a half an hour ago but Dean still couldn't believe it- didn't want to believe it. He wanted this all to be some terrible nightmare he would wake up from, warm and comfortable in his lumpy motel bed with his little brother curled against him while their Dad snored away on the second mattress.

It wasn't fair. It was only four days until Christmas. Nothing bad should happen at this time of the year. Especially not to kids.

But even though Dean tried to deny it, he couldn't wish away the truth.

The little red Toyota had hit Sam, and even though the lady driving it had been slamming on her brakes, it didn't matter. The damage was done:

Several broken ribs.

One broken wrist.

A host of lacerations and contusions to Sam's abdomen and face.

But the most devastating and frightening of the child's injuries- the one that had landed him in the PICU- was the head trauma. Edema, the doctor had called it, or a swelling of the brain tissue, was very serious. Sam had been put on IV fluids immediately and had also been given medicine to- hopefully- force the swelling to go down.

Now all anybody could do was to wait and watch and pray, if you were the praying kind, which neither John nor Dean were.

W

The Pediatric Intensive Care Unit was bustling with activity, despite (or maybe in spite of) the upcoming Christmas holiday. Doctors, nurses, family members and friends moved in and out of the unit, sometimes as silent as shadows, sometimes murmuring as quietly as the snow falling outside or crying as loudly as banshees.

Since this section of the hospital belonged to the injured and ill children, the walls had been painted in bright cheerful colours of blue, yellow, green, and red, in the hopes of offsetting the stark tile floor and the pervasive sadness that seemed to seep into everything and everyone.

Sam's doctor, a man in his late thirties, with wavy blond hair and clear blue eyes, ducked in and out of the PICU constantly overseeing his young charge with the attentiveness of a concerned parent.

The man did not stop to talk to the Winchesters, he had said all he'd needed to say so far- he knew as much as the family did- about Sam's condition. He had done all he could to help the boy for now, the rest, was up to the nine-year old.

W

Dean leaned back in the uncomfortable plastic chair, closing eyes itching with fatigue.

John had vanished, perhaps in search of a coffee and a sandwich.

The teen sighed and hoped his father would think to bring him back something.

Pounding footsteps coming down the hallway drew Dean's attention to Sam's doctor pelting towards him. Before the man could reach the thirteen-year old however, he reached out and skidded into doorway to the PICU, shoving the door open with such force it bounced off the opposite wall.

"Doctor!" Dean stood and followed the man into the unit, "Doctor! What's wrong? Is Sammy okay?"

Pushing the door open, Dean saw that the small reception area- with a nurses' desk, a red plush loveseat and matching chairs, a coffee table and a handful of children's toys- was empty.

To the left of the large nurses' desk was a glass wall with a view into the Pediatric Intensive Care Unit and it's small occupants. Dean stepped up to the glass and peered into the room, his eyes drawn to the bed where his brother lay.

The doctor and the PICU nurse were leaning over the nine-year old who was convulsing violently in the bed. Sam's doctor was shouting at the nurse, his words muffled by the glass.

"Sammy," Dean whispered, a lump forming in his throat.

The nurse left the bedside for a moment, hurrying to the row of cabinets and drawers at the far side of the room and readied a needle before returning to the distressed child.

Lifting one of Sam's wrists already punctured by an IV needle and with a thin tube running from it to the bag of fluids hanging from the metal tree standing beside the bed, the nurse injected the liquid inside the needle she held into the line and waited.

Dean bit his lip, also waiting.

One minute passed, than another and another and then suddenly Sam ceased moving and lay deathly still in his bed.

The doctor looked across the bed to the nurse and spoke to her. She nodded and after depositing the sharp from the needle into the bright yellow bucket at the far end of the room, where the cupboards and drawers were located, returned to Sam's bed.

Moving quickly, the doctor and nurse took the brakes off the bed and pushed it out into the open reception area of the PICU.

"What happened? Is Sam all right? Where are you taking him?" Dean asked the doctor as soon as he was in the same room as him.

The young doctor, however, clearly had no time for the thirteen-year old's questions and ignored him.

"Melinda," the doctor spoke to the nurse, "Let Surgery know my patient is on his way."

The nurse nodded and stepped in behind the desk, picking up the phone.

Dean, however, followed the doctor and his brother.

"Sammy!" he called, grabbing onto one of the bedrails and trotting along beside his sibling.

"Let go," the doctor ordered Dean in a harried tone, "Let me do my job."

The thirteen-year old shook his head and followed as they left the PICU reception room and moved into the hallway.

"You need to let go of the bed," the doctor reiterated, his face clenched in irritation.

"Dean!" John's voice called out and the teen felt strong hands grip his shoulders.

The doctor had paused; just for a moment- only a moment- as the father pried his oldest son away from his brother's bed.

"Let the man do his job, Dean," John murmured, wrapping his arms around his son even though the teen had not fought back, "Sam's in good hands."

Dean slumped as he watched the doctor continue on his way with his brother, the lump in his throat feeling large enough to choke him.

"Dad…" the boy whimpered.

"I know, Dean," John murmured, "I know."

The elder hunter guided his son back to the row of chairs sitting outside the PICU and Dean dropped into one, raising his hands to grip his short-cropped hair.

SPN

John Winchester stood up and approached Sam's doctor as soon as he saw the man coming down the hallway towards them.

"Is my son all right?" the hunter asked, his heart skipping a beat at the younger man's grim expression.

"He's holding on," the doctor replied, "But no, he's not recovering as quickly as I'd like."

"What happened back there?" Dean's voice piped up from behind John, "It looked like Sam was having a fit."

The doctor nodded his head once, "The intravenous fluids and medication he was receiving did not decrease the swelling in Sam's brain enough and he had a seizure."

John closed his eyes for a moment, unsure of how much more he could take, before he looked at the young doctor again.

"What are you doing for him now?"

"I'm continuing with the fluids and medication," he answered, "But Sam had to have emergency surgery- a decrompressive craiectomy- because the other treatments were not working as they should."

"What's that?" Dean spoke up again, right behind his father.

"A neurosurgeon had to remove a piece of your brother's skull so that his brain would have room to swell without pushing against the inside of his head," the doctor explained.

John stared at the doctor, shocked. He didn't even react when he felt his thirteen-year old's hand reached out to grip his arm tightly, the boy's fingers digging in like claws.

"Why wasn't I told about this before the surgery?" John asked.

"Mr. Rose," the doctor began, using the fake last name the hunter had given the staff upon arriving, "There was no time to ask you to approve the surgery. If we had waited any longer, your son may have had another convulsion that could cause even more damage than there already is."

"Damage?" Dean asked, "Sammy's already hurt, how?"

The doctor peered down at the thirteen-year old; "We won't know the extent of the damage until your brother wakes up."

If he wakes up, the unspoken words hung in the air for a long moment before John spoke again.

"So, you take out a piece of my son's skull," he began slowly, still trying to wrap his mind around what the doctor had told him, "And then what? What happens after all this, when Sam leaves?"

The doctor looked relieved to be talking about something a bit more positive now- the hope that his young patient would recover and leave this hospital through the front doors and not the back- and held out a hand, "Why don't we all sit down for a moment?"

The two elder Winchesters followed him to the orange plastic chairs and sat, John closest to the doctor with Dean on his other side.

"In children, decompressive craniectomies have a very high recovery rate- about sixty percent- which is great news for Sam. Now, afterwards, because he will be missing a piece of his skull, he is more likely to injure his brain and it is highly recommended that protective measures be taken to prevent this. He can wear a helmet or he can have a temporary implant put in before he leaves here.

Once Sam has recovered enough, the cranictomy can be repaired with cranioplasty- where a plastic plate is surgically placed over the hole in the skull- which will protect his brain. Once that has healed, no one will know he ever had surgery. He'll have a scar, but his hair will grow back and cover it."

John nodded, although this wasn't fantastic news, it was better than the alternative. Sam would recover from this invasive surgery and eventually appear as no different to anyone else.

"All this is great," the elder Winchester said, "But what about the swelling that's already happened in Sam's brain?"

The doctor once again, looked unhappily at the small family, "As I've said, we won't know the extent of the brain damage until your son has woken up. There is no way of telling, at the moment, how much of a beating his brain took before the surgery."

"Sammy will be okay, Dad," Dean spoke up, his tone hopeful, "He always bounces back."

John, not turning to look at his son, nodded and thanked the doctor for taking the time to speak with them.

"Is Sammy coming back here?" the thirteen-year old asked the doctor.

The man told the teen that his brother would be brought back to the PICU soon.

SPN

Dean gripped his brother's hand tightly, squeezing gently but firmly.

Sam had indeed been returned to the Unit and the nurse, Melinda, had informed the Winchesters that if they wanted to see the boy, they were allowed to now because visiting hours had just started.

Although the teen thought it stupid that the PICU had the same visiting hours as the rest of the hospital, he hadn't voiced his distaste after a warning look from his father. They wouldn't be helping Sam if they were kicked out of the Unit now.

John had left again, to get more coffee and see what the cafeteria offered for breakfast.

Dean had refused to leave his brother's side now that he was allowed to be there. He'd stay with Sammy as long as the visiting hours allowed and then he'd haunt the hallway outside of the PICU as he had been doing all night.

"Hey, Sammy," the thirteen-year old murmured, "I know you've been through a lot lately, but it'd be great if you woke up. It's almost Christmas- three days to go, you know- and I don't want you to miss it."

The nine-year old did not miraculously open his eyes; Dean wasn't sure his brother would be able to even if he did wake up. The boy's face was puffy, purple and blue with bruises, one eye blackened, the other sunken in its socket. Small cuts had been cleaned but still stood out bright red against pale skin, the bigger lacerations held together with medical tape or stitches.

The hand Dean was holding was encased in a green cast to protect his broken wrist. The blankets covering Sam's torso were bulkier than they should be as a result of the bandages covering his broken ribs. His head was shaved and covered in white bandages like a turban. The IV line had been placed into the hand of Sam's uninjured arm, as well as a pulse oximeter on his index finger.

At least two machines with screens showing wavering lines stood sentinel over the bed, one beeping rhythmically that Dean thought might be showing his brother's heartbeat.

"You'll be fine, Sam," Dean continued, keeping his voice low so he wouldn't disturb the other occupants in the room, "You'll show that doctor."

Tears welled up in Dean's eyes. He couldn't quite believe what he was saying. Sam was an amazing, awesome kid but even he couldn't come away from a swollen brain unscathed.

The teen looked up sharply when the door to the PICU opened but Dean relaxed when he saw it was just the nurse coming in to check the patients.

When she had finished, Melinda stopped at Sam's bed.

"My shift is over in ten minutes," she told Dean, "My replacement will be here any moment."

The teen nodded but said nothing. The nurse hesitated as though she wanted to say something else but then she simply gave an encouraging smile and left the room.

Dean turned his attention back to his brother.

SPN

John Winchester walked slowly down the hallway towards the Pediatric Intensive Care Unit like a man on his way to the gallows.

The doctor's words hadn't stopped chasing each other 'round his head all morning.

The decompressive craniectomy had been a success but had it come too late? How much damage had already been done to Sam's brain? Would he wake up? If and when he did regain consciousness, how in bad a shape would the nine-year old be? Would he be able to speak? Would he recognize his family? Would he know where he was or even who he was? Would he understand anything?

A man and woman interrupted John in his grim musings when they stepped in front of him and pushed through the door into the reception area of the PICU. The hunter faltered, watching as the couple spoke to the nurse sitting behind the desk- a different woman than there had been last night- before continuing into the inner room where their son or daughter waited.

John continued on his way into the antechamber of the Unit.

"I'm Sam Rose's father," John told the nurse on duty tiredly.

The woman, approaching late middle age, with long grey hair and a careworn face, peered at the screen of her computer for a moment before replying.

"Go right on in, Mr. Rose."

John didn't respond. Using his shoulder, because his hands were full, he shoved open the door, letting it swing shut loudly behind him, and stepped into the room.

Dean looked up at him and gave a weak smile. John returned the gesture.

"I brought you something to eat," he told his son as he stepped up to the bed.

Dean held out his hands to accept the cup of coffee and breakfast sandwich from his father.

John pulled a chair up to the opposite side of the hospital bed from his eldest son and set his Styrofoam cup on the small nightstand beside it, peeling the plastic wrap from his own sandwich.

"How is he?" the father asked before taking a bite of his breakfast sandwich with egg, cheese, and a sausage patty.

Dean shrugged, "The same."

"It'll probably take time for him to wake up," John said after swallowing.

Dean nodded and didn't speak again, concentrating on eating and drinking.

Father and son remained silent and soon John was peering around the quiet room until he spied the couple that had cut him off earlier. They were both leaning over the bed of a little girl who looked to be around Sam's age.

The mother and father were smiling and crooning to their child, the woman stroking her daughter's blonde hair.

The door to the room opened and the nurse stepped inside, carrying a yellow plastic tray with a bowl, a small carton of milk, a cup of juice and a slice of toast on it. She brought the tray over to the little girl and her family, spoke quietly with them and then left again.

John turned back to his sons.

"Sam's gonna wake up, right Dad?"

The question surprised the hunter; earlier Dean been so sure his brother would recover.

"The doctor said the surgery went we-" the father began but his son interrupted him.

"That's not what I mean, Dad," Dean's face was clenched in frustration and anger, "Is Sammy going to get better or is he just going to lie here until he had another seizure or he bleeds out or… or…"

"Dean," John said cautiously- cautious not because he was trying to spare his son's feelings but because they needed to be realistic- "There is a chance Sam will wake up… But there is also the possibility that he won't. We need to be prepared for either one."

The thirteen-year old bit his lip and nodded, peering down at his sibling.

SPN

Dean sat up and rubbed at his eyes. He must have fallen asleep. Not surprising, he hadn't slept a wink the entire night previous.

Stretching his arms out over his head, the thirteen-year old peered around the room.

The little girl and her parents were gone. Her bed had been stripped and fresh sheets put on in anticipation for a new occupant.

John, once again, was not in the room, leaving his sons alone.

The teen noticed that some time must have passed, the sunlight on the tile floor of the room had changed position and though it was still very quiet in the room it just seemed more alive.

Dean looked at his brother but Sam was still sleeping.

Feeling the urge to pee, the older sibling glanced around the room and spied a restroom on the other side.

"I'll be right back, Sammy," he assured his brother and stood, making his way across the room to the bathroom.

Just as he opened the door, he heard the door to the Unit open and a strange jingling sound. Thinking it was his father; Dean craned his neck to see what was going on.

A fat man wearing a red suit with black boots had just stepped into the room. He had curly white hair and a white beard.

"Ho, Ho, Ho," the man announced in a subdued tone and those children who were awake and able, cried out with glee.

"SANTA!"

The man playing Santa Claus stepped into the room and Dean relaxed when he saw the nurse following.

The woman caught sight of the teen and smiled at him. Dean smiled back and quickly slipped into the restroom.

W

The thirteen-year old smiled as he watched the kids in the PICU each whisper what they wanted for Christmas to jolly man dressed as Santa Claus before giving him a hug before he moved on to the next child.

When the man stopped at Sam's bedside, Dean spoke.

"He's asleep," he whispered, the lump in his throat making a reappearance, "He won't wake up."

The man nodded but didn't move, "May I?"

Dean, unsure of what he was going to do, nodded.

Santa Claus leaned over the bed and as gently as a father to his beloved child, placed a kiss on Sam's brow, just below the bandages covering his head.

Straightening, the man looked at the teen, "Now, Dean, would you like to tell me what you want for Christmas?"

The boy's mouth dropped open, "How do you know my name?"

The man smiled, "Of course I know your name, I'm Santa Claus."

Dean's mouth contorted. The nurse must have told this guy what his name was.

"I don't really believe in Santa Claus," he said, "Haven't for a long time. Sorry."

The man shook his head, "Don't be sorry. There are many children who don't believe in me. But I believe in them."

Dean couldn't help but smirk; now this was like some cheesy made-for-TV Christmas movie.

"Sure," he replied sarcastically.

"So, are you ready to tell me what you'd like for Christmas? Humour me?" Santa Claus asked in a friendly tone.

Dean sighed, peered down at his sibling. Sam knew there was no such thing as Santa either but he would have loved this just for the chance to act like a kid and not a hunter.

The teen shrugged, "Why not?"

Carefully, the man sat on the edge of Sam's bed beside Dean.

"I don't have to sit on your lap, do I?" the teen asked and the man shook his head, chuckling.

"What would you like this Christmas?"

Dean could think of a million things he'd like for Christmas but there was only one thing that he truly wanted- the only thing that mattered- that he knew he wouldn't get.

"I want Sammy to get better," he whispered, as though confiding a deep, dark secret.

"I want Sammy to wake up," he continued.

"I want Sammy to end up okay," he finished, his green eyes going to his sibling's battered face.

"I know you can't do that, but that's what I want," Dean paused, "that's all I want."

The man said nothing for a while and then he finally spoke, "I'll see what I can do."

The thirteen-year old smiled at the kind man who had dressed up as Santa Claus to see all the sick and hurt kids in the hospital but knew he wasn't fooling anyone.

Santa Claus wasn't real so why should miracles be any different?

And it would take a miracle for Sam to come out of this in one piece.

SPN

John, by the grace of God, had managed to pull Dean away from his brother's bedside and into the hospital's cafeteria on the main floor.

It was dinnertime; visiting hours were winding down so there were mostly doctors and nurses eating pre-packaged meals wearily before they went back to their duties.

Dean had told him about the visit from Santa Claus. Since John believed in Kris Kringle as much as he believed in God, he had simply smiled and commented that that had been a nice gesture for the children who would have to spend Christmas in the hospital.

John didn't know what Dean had asked for.

Sam had remained the same all day and didn't look as though he would be regaining consciousness anytime soon.

The thirteen-year old picked at his macaroni and cheese; obviously he'd rather be with his brother.

John cleared his throat and Dean looked up at him listlessly.

"Dean, we need to be prepared for-"

The boy dropped his plastic fork and glared daggers at his father, "Don't even finish that sentence."

"Dean, you're-"

"No!" he snapped, "I won't even let you think about losing Sammy."

The thirteen-year old was standing, hands flat on the table on either side of his congealing dinner.

"I know this is hard," John continued slowly, "It's hard for me too but-"

"Sammy's going to wake up," Dean insisted, as though daring his father to say otherwise, "Sammy's going to wake up and he'll be okay. He will. That's the end of it."

John sighed and stood, taking his tray with him.

He hated to think about losing his youngest son but that fact was, that was still a very strong possibility.

But fine, if Dean wanted to entertain this deluded belief that his brother would come out of this as though the accident had never happened, well, than let him.

As much as John was loathe to think it, Dean would get a reality check soon enough.

W

John left Dean in the cafeteria.

Alone, he walked down the hallway to the elevators and pushed the button to summon one.

Moments later, the elder Winchester stepped inside a large lift and pushed the button for the fourth floor, where the PICU was.

Once the elevator stopped on the correct floor, John exited and headed down the hallway, looking to a long night spent loitering outside of the Unit while he waited for visiting hours to start again.

As the hunter moved closer to the Pediatric Intensive Care Unit however, he could almost sense a certain shift in the atmosphere of the area. Picking up his pace, the father stepped into the reception space and peered at his son's bed through the glass wall.

Sam's bed was not there.

"Sam?" John asked, as though his son would answer him.

Pivoting to his side, the father turned to the nurses' desk and gripped the edge of the wooden structure.

"My son, Sam," John ground out, his heart pounding in his chest, "Where is he?"

The nurse on duty, a young man of Asian decent, peered at the computer screen calmly.

"What is your son's last name?"

"Rose! Sam Rose," John snapped, the nurse's cool demeanor irritating him.

"Ah," the nurse replied, "Sam was taken downstairs for an MRI about twenty minutes ago."

"An MRI?" John asked, "Why?"

The nurse looked up at him, his dark brown eyes wide with surprise, "Dr. Tomlinson didn't tell you? Your son woke up."

If John hadn't been holding onto the edge of the desk he certainly would have collapsed.

Relief and fear surged through his body at the nurse's words.

"He woke up," the father whispered, "He's awake."

"Sir? Mr. Rose," the nurse stood up, peering over the desk at the hunter, "Are you all right?"

John didn't reply. Instead, he lowered his hands and walked out of the reception area and sat down heavily on one of the orange plastic chairs in the hallway. Then, John Winchester, hardened hunter and ex-Marine, placed his face in his hands and cried.

SPN

Dean poked at his mac n' cheese for a few more moments before giving up and tossing the clotted mess into the trash.

Following his father's footsteps, the thirteen-year old left the cafeteria but instead of heading for the elevators, decided to take the stairs instead.

Walking slowly, the boy climbed the stairs, the quiet giving him time to think.

Dean knew the chances of his brother regaining consciousness were minimal, he knew the likelihood of his brother retaining all his faculties was even less so. But damn it, he couldn't bear to imagine a world without his baby brother in it.

Pushing open the door to the stairwell on the fourth floor, the thirteen-year old looked around the hallway for a moment to gather himself.

Stepping into the hallway, the boy saw his father at the far end of the corridor, slouched forward on one of those unforgiving plastic chairs, his head in his hands.

Dean's heart clenched painfully at the sight of his father and he began running towards the older man.

"Dad," the boy ground out, barely above a whisper, than louder and louder until he was shouting.

"Dad! Dad! DAD!"

John lifted his head and stared at Dean with red-rimmed eyes.

No, Dean thought; no, please don't let it be true. It can't be. Sam's all right. He's got to be.

John stood and caught Dean in his arms before he could stop.

"He's awake," John spoke at the same time as his son, "He woke up, Dean."

"He can't be gone!" Dean cried, tears welling up in his eyes, "He can't be! I won't let him go!"

Both Winchesters stuttered to a stop and stared at one another for a long moment.

"Dean, Sam's awake," John repeated and offered a small smile, "His doctor took him to have an MRI."

"Sammy's okay?" the thirteen-year old asked and John nodded.

"Did he say anything? Is he all right?" Dean asked but John shook his head, "I don't know."

Guiding his eldest son to the chairs, John sat down while Dean remained standing.

"You may be in for a long wait, Dean," the elder Winchester commented but his son refused to sit. He wanted to be ready when Sam came back.

SPN

Forty-five minutes later, the time dragging on like molasses, John and Dean saw the doctor step off the elevator, pushing Sam in his hospital bed.

Both hunters hurried towards their youngest family member, fear and excitement boiling in their bellies.

"Sammy!" Dean exclaimed, grabbing onto the side rail and peering anxiously at his sibling's face, "Sam!"

"How'd it go doctor?" John asked, walking on the other side of the bed.

The nine-year old's eyes were closed and if his father hadn't known better, he would have thought he was still unconscious.

"We'll talk once we get into the room," Dr. Tomlinson told the Winchesters and John nodded, reaching out to pull Dean away from the bed so the doctor could guide it through the doorway to the PICU.

Right behind the doctor, Dean continued to call his brother's name; every moment that passed his tone began more desperate.

Maybe Sam had fallen unconscious again. Maybe he wouldn't wake up again. Maybe he was awake but unable to respond.

Carefully, with years of practice, Dr. Tomlinson pushed the wide bed through the door leading to the Unit itself, giving the nurse on duty a distracted, "'evening", as he did so.

Once his young patient's bed was back into its proper place and the brakes had been engaged, Dr. Tomlinson turned to the elder Winchesters.

"First, let me say, Sam is doing much better than I expected," he told them, smiling a little to try and show them that although not everything was hunky-dory, it was better than had been expected, "And that the surgery, combined with the fluids and medication, finally managed to reduce the swelling in his brain."

"But…" John commented, waiting on pins and needles.

"There is damage," Dr. Tomlinson told the family gently, "With Sam's injuries there would be no getting around that. But, he's young and will likely recover well. I am not making promises- Sam may still suffer from the affects of his injuries for years to come- but he will recover.

The relief on the faces of his patient's father and brother melted the doctor's heart.

"I'd like to keep Sam here until we've figured out the extent of the damage and see what resources are needed to help him cope," Dr. Tomlinson told them and John nodded.

"Absolutely."

Stepping up to the doctor, John held out a hand, "Thank you so much, Doctor."

The young doctor shook the hunter's hand, "Think nothing of it, Mr. Rose."

Dean had barely heard any of the conversation between his Dad and the doctor; he had pulled a chair up to his brother's bedside and was once again gripping his sibling's hand.

"Sammy," he murmured, "C'mon, wake up, man. Wake up for me. Just let me know you're okay."

He looked up when he felt his father's hand on his shoulder, "Dean, let him rest."

Reluctantly, the thirteen-year old nodded and released his sibling's hand.

"C'mon," John, with a hand still on his eldest son's shoulder, planned to guide the boy back into the hall, when a quiet voice startled all of them.

Dr. Tomlinson, Dean and John all turned to the nine-year old with surprise.

"D'n."

Dean Winchester smiled, tears of happiness welling up in his eyes, knowing in his heart that his sibling was going to be okay.

"Sammy."

**Author's Note:**

> Yet another Christmas-related story. I had these ideas swirling around in my head like snow through the holidays but couldn't get them all down. This one is another belated tale. I hope you all enjoy it.
> 
> As many of you will know if you've been with me from the beginning, I am not a doctor and rely on the Internet (or my younger sister, who is a nurse) when it comes to medical jargon and themes for my stories. If I have made any glaring errors with anything, I apologize.


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